


Happy Un-Birthday, Sherlock

by bigblueboxat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Birthday, Developing Relationship, M/M, Sherlock's birthday is notoriously imprecise in ACD canon, Slow Build, Slow To Update, it's not all that important to this story, just sayin' that's where the inspiration came from, you can disagree if you like
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-14
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-05-06 20:59:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14656140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: John is determined to celebrate Sherlock's birthday, but he can't for the life of him find out when it is, so he takes a different approach.





	1. April 19th, 11.47am

**Author's Note:**

> If you read the tags, you'll see I'm of the persuasion that Sherlock's birthday is not ACD canon. Disagree or not, that was part of the inspiration for this. Plus I wanted to do something nice for a most outstanding group of writers, betas, and friends, celebrating all of us together.  
> So, all of that was stewing in my brain for a while. Result: a story, based around the vageries of Sherlock's birthday, dedicated to my Besties (you know who you are). One chapter per person, published on their birthday, dedicated to them.  
> IT WILL BE SLOW UPDATING. Much as I want to go forth and publish it all now, imma stick to the plan. We luckily had two April birthdays and a May birthday, but the rest won't be til later in the year.  
> Real time slow burn FTW! <3

“What are you doing, John?”

The knock on his bedroom door had been loud and insistent, but Sherlock hadn’t huffed his way out of bed and into a dressing gown until John had cheerfully announced the order in which he would start throwing out refrigerated experiments. Sherlock had only taken two steps into the kitchen before stopping abruptly. He stared suspiciously at the small cake on the table, the flame from a single candle dancing merrily.

“Happy un-birth-moment, Sherlock!” John exclaimed, hands spread wide. He looked quite pleased with himself, Sherlock noted.

“It’s not even my birth _day_ , John.”

John shrugged. “I know. Well, it might have been, but that would have been a hell of a fluke. Had as good a chance of being today as any other day, though.”

“And I wasn’t born at,” Sherlock checked his watch, “11.47am, either.”

“Well, since you won’t tell me when you were born, I figured April 19th at 11.47am was as good a time as any other.”

Sherlock stared at John before redirecting his gaze to the small flame. He had no idea why John had fixated on this idea of knowing when he was born. It wasn’t like he had any control over it – it was hardly an accomplishment and literally every person on the planet had experienced it. Yet John asked, again and again. He’d checked Sherlock’s wallet – no driving licence to give him away. No birth certificate lying around. Mycroft, annoying as he could be, had obviously refused to indulge him, either. It was fortunate his parents had not visited again, and John had obviously not tried to contact them. Mummy would tell John every detail of Sherlock’s birth in a heartbeat.

But so far, John had come up empty in his search. So in the absence of an actual birthday, it appeared he had just…made one up. For Sherlock.

“Have you decided to celebrate my birth at this arbitrary time and date, then?” Sherlock asked. Well, at least he wouldn’t have to worry about it for another year, if that was the case. And John would stop asking. He was both relieved and oddly disappointed at the notion.

“Nope,” John replied, crossing his arms. “You’d better blow out that candle.”

Sherlock ignored the candle. “What do you mean, nope?”

“I’m not going to celebrate your birth at this specific date and time,” John told him. “I’m going to do it at random dates and times until you tell me when I should be doing it. On your actual birthday, at your actual birth time.” He shrugged. “I’m not going to keep trying to find out.”

Sherlock stared at him. “But…why, John?”

“Birthdays are important, Sherlock.”

“Not to me, they aren’t,” he retorted automatically.

“Not yet,” John conceded, a smile dancing around his mouth. “But you don’t know what I’m planning for your next un-birth-moment.”

“How many times do you plan on doing this?” Sherlock asked.

“Well there are 525 600 minutes in a year, according to that infernal bloody musical,” John replied serenely, “So another 525 599 times? Unless I get it right before then. Or if it’s a leap year.” He frowned. “Maybe you could tell me if I get the time right, though. Might make it quicker.”

Sherlock considered the options. Telling John his actual birthday – no, birth- _moment_ – would certainly mean a far more extravagant celebration than this single cupcake. But once John knew, he would add it to his list of birthdays to commemorate, details to remember. It would lose its uniqueness, surely. He would forget about trying to figure it out.

It would mean less of John’s time wondering about Sherlock, thinking about him, deciding whether today was a day to have an un-birth-moment celebration.

It would be less special.

“Well, if that’s what you want to do, John,” Sherlock replied finally, picking up the cupcake and blowing out the candle. His heart was pounding for some reason. A bite of the cake helped to cover his sudden fluster.

“What did you wish for?” John asked automatically, eyes watching Sherlock’s tongue sweep his top lip for stray chocolate ganache. The icing was heavy and thick, and it stuck to the inside of Sherlock’s mouth as he chewed. He swallowed hard.

“I believe tradition dictates I cannot tell you or it won’t come true,” he said.

“Yeah, you’re right,” John grinned. He pulled out his phone and took a photo as Sherlock bit into the cake again.

“What-” Sherlock managed through his full mouth.

“Just a record,” John grinned at him. “Make sure I don’t lose track.”

“Right,” Sherlock replied. He wasn’t sure exactly what they’d agreed to here. John seemed happy, though, and that was what counted.


	2. April 21st, 1.30pm

John’s watch alarm went off as Sherlock paced, frowning at the crime scene. He normally wouldn’t notice, except that he’d been on high alert since the cake two days ago. Despite several hours in his mind palace, Sherlock had been unable to decide how John would go about this. All he knew for sure was that John would have a plan, and he would neither forget nor lose interest. However long he planned it to go, it would go. Whether that meant an un-birth-moment every week, at regular intervals or with long months in between, there was no doubt in Sherlock’s mind that John knew exactly what he was doing.

He had no idea if that was a good thing or not.

Right now it was annoying; he’d had to reserve five percent of his attention for John, unable to focus completely on this crime scene lest John try to put something in place without him knowing about it. For some reason this whole un-birthday charade felt private. He didn’t want anyone else to know and was quite apprehensive about John sharing it with other people. Sherlock was quite aware that he and John shared an unusual relationship. Apart from the crude comments from those more obviously distressed by it (Donovan and Anderson came immediately to mind), Sherlock could read innuendo as well as anyone – he just rarely bothered to. When it came to John, though, Sherlock often made the effort. Something about this particular crusade of John’s was…more. More than even they already shared, far more than most friendships would stretch to.

And the last thing Sherlock wanted was to stop it. He had not yet delved into why that was – his suspicion alone was enough to make him anxious – but his desire to be the focus of John’s attention for as long as possible was definite. As shameful as it was, Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to sneer at it, to deride it as he often did to other people’s ideas and plans. Because this was John, and John was different.

The sound of the alarm was quiet but Sherlock was hyper aware of John, and the rustle of his sleeve against the body of his jacket as he switched off the alarm was loud, even over the background noise. The deductions came in a cascade without any conscious thought.

John never set an alarm.

It must be something important.

Something time sensitive.

Not a regular occurrence because there was nothing in Sherlock’s considerable knowledge of John that required action at 1.30pm on a Saturday.

A one off, then.

“Greg, can you give us a minute?” John asked quietly. He hadn’t even spoken to Sherlock, who was now frozen, bending over a cigarette butt in the corner of the room. It was testament to Greg’s tolerance of the two of them that he emptied the room without fuss; Sherlock heard Anderson making enough complaint for the both of them.

“Sherlock?” John’s voice was close, no more than a metre or so, and from a height that indicated he was standing upright. Sherlock took a fortifying breath before rising, turning to look at John as he did.

“Happy un-birth-moment, Sherlock.” The words were quiet and lacked the excitement of two days ago, but a gentle amusement swirled in John’s eyes. He held out a small brown box.

Wordlessly, Sherlock took it. He removed the lid, and felt his lips part at the astonishing contents.

It was a tiny chocolate violin, perfect in every detail. Cotton wool cradled it, preventing its delicate neck or chocolate strings from being broken.

“John,” Sherlock breathed.

“April 21st, 1.30pm,” John murmured. He removed the violin carefully, settling it in Sherlock’s hand, framing it with his own shorter fingers. Sherlock, still mesmerised by the gift, didn’t notice John take out his camera until the quiet click indicated a photo.

“Eat it up,” John told him, “and make a wish.”

“Eat it?” Sherlock repeated.

“Well, that’s what it’s for,” John replied. “Couldn’t bring a candle to a crime scene, Greg would have killed me.”

Sherlock nodded, a jerky movement as his head whirled. He turned the violin over, noting the same remarkable attention to detail on the back, before opening his mouth and settling the chocolate carefully on his tongue. It almost dissolved with the heat of his mouth, melting immediately and sliding across to rest against his teeth. Instinctively he shifted his jaw, the burst of chocolate rich and velvety against his tongue.

“Thank you, John,” Sherlock said quietly. He looked up to realise John was watching him closely. If it was anyone else, Sherlock would have described it as affectionate, but that couldn’t be right, surely?

“Did you make a wish?” John asked.

“Yes.” Sherlock replied.

“Good.” John said. With a last smile, he turned away, opening the door for the outside world to invade once again.


	3. May 14th, 6.54pm

“Mr. Holmes?”

The voice was unfamiliar, but Sherlock sighed. It hardly took an effort to deduce who this man was and it wasn’t even worth opening his eyes to reply.

“Tell him I’m not interested.”

“I’m to tell you I do not work for your brother, Mr. Holmes.”

Hmm, interesting, Sherlock grudgingly allowed. He opened his eyes and swept his gaze once over the man, one eyebrow rising in surprise. Not quite what he expected, then.

“Yes you do,” Sherlock replied. “But you’re not here for him.”

“Correct,” the man said, his face betraying his amusement. He withdrew an envelope from his inner pocket and handed it to Sherlock. It was not his brother’s stationery ( _cheaper, more readily available_ ), and the hand was unfamiliar. Frowning, Sherlock opened it, aware the man was still present.

“I’m to go with you, then.” Sherlock stated. He stood very still for a moment before moving rapidly to collect his coat from the hook by the door. “Shall we?” he said to the man, a gleam in his eye.

“You know where we’re going?” Sherlock asked him, when the car started moving before he could speak.

“The first destination, yes,” the man replied.

Sherlock blinked, assimilating this information. Certainly not the evening he’d expected.

When he arrived at the nominated pub, Sherlock did as he’d been instructed and approached the bartender.

“I’ll have a,” he paused, “Vesper Martini, shaken not stirred.” He had the vague idea there was a joke there somewhere, given the smirk on the bartender’s face.

“Find the spy. He’ll have your next clue.” The bartender slid the drink across the bar, waved off the money Sherlock offered and turned away. Sherlock picked up the drink, considering the bartender’s words. He was on…a treasure hunt? Absently he sipped at the drink then made a face, depositing it back on the bar. Find the spy. Shouldn’t be too difficult…

+++

Several hours later, Sherlock walked up Baker Street. He still had no idea why he’d been running all over London, and the fact irked him. There had been moments he’d felt a whisper of the truth, but the next clue had been all wrong, knocking his careful deductions aside, forcing him to start from scratch. As his mind whirled, Sherlock barely noticed the familiar faces taking part in this charade; Molly, Stamford, even Angelo had borne clues with a range expressions from smug to sympathetic (Molly, of course). It somehow felt like…but that couldn’t be right. Why would… Sherlock dismissed the fledgling idea, focussing on the next clue, and the next and the next as he crisscrossed London in search of the final resolution. Mycroft’s driver-cum-security had continued to drive him wherever he asked, answering no questions and taking the abuse Sherlock hurled in his stride. It hadn’t helped, ranting at this man, and Sherlock missed John more than ever. At least John rallied back, often making errors that forced Sherlock to change his perspective and solve the case. This man was as useful as a brick wall. A brick wall with a driving licence, but still. He’d taken the long way around after the last clue, stopping at Baker Street and watching Sherlock throw the front door open.

Stomping up the stairs, Sherlock stopped in the middle of the room.

A single balloon was tied to the arm of his chair. It floated around his head height, a yellow and black striped bee bobbing gently in the warm air.

Someone had lit a fire – it certainly had not been burning when he’d left. Sherlock carefully shucked his coat, about to drop it on the desk when his phone pinged. He took his eyes from the balloon, fetching his phone and reading the new message.

 

_May 14 th, 6.54pm. Happy un-birth-moment, Sherlock. I hope you enjoyed your evening’s entertainment – John._

 

Slowly, Sherlock typed a reply.

 

_Thank you, John. Do you still plan on returning tomorrow? – SH_

 

_Yes, conference finishes tonight. First train home leaves at 6.15am. See you around 10. – John_

 

Sherlock placed his phone on the desk and sank into his chair, careful not to bump the bee still bobbing there. So John _had_ arranged all this. His earlier idea, dismissed for its absurdity, was correct. The clues, the driver, the balloon. A different hand to disguise the notes. Something to occupy Sherlock’s mind while he was away. A twist of guilt curled through Sherlock – perhaps John was worried Sherlock might return to his less healthy occupations while the medical conference had taken John out of London. It was true that Sherlock had been restless with John away, unable to settle down to his research or reorganising wings of his mind palace. Everything was too quiet, too…lonely. The word was not one Sherlock had every consciously applied to himself. While he had spent quite a lot of his life alone, it had never felt like he was missing something.

Until John.

Frowning, Sherlock twisted in his chair. He looked up at the balloon and realised something. Taking out his phone, he angled it so the photo included part of his face along with the stripes of the bee.

 

  _Keepsake. May 14 th, 6.54pm – SH_

_Thanks, Sherlock. – John_


	4. August 19th, 8.30pm

It had been months since the last one, and the irritation of not knowing had settled into a low level discomfort. Sherlock found himself watching John far more. He was more aware than ever of his friend – where he was, what he was doing, and especially, whether he was watching Sherlock.

The answer was ‘yes’ surprisingly often.

With so many days since May 14th, a new habit had formed. Sherlock’s eyes were rarely off John now. Only at a scene were they directed elsewhere for a significant amount of time. Even then, the back of his neck would prickle, the air itself whispering John’s name as he worked.

It was not as distracting as he would have thought; the consistency of it became comforting. John was always there, sometimes quiet, barely shifting his weight but throwing dirty looks at Anderson whenever he got too snarky. Other times he would clear the room and get in Sherlock’s face, forcing him to eat or talk through his thought processes, unerringly highlighting the critical fact to shift Sherlock’s perspective.

It was sometimes annoying, but slowly Sherlock realised John was doing the right thing, every time. Maddeningly, he couldn’t figure out how John knew what to do. It was a night in August (the nineteenth; Sherlock’s internal calendar was far more accurate than it used to be, even during his black moods). John was out for a drink with Stamford, allowing Sherlock the chance to direct his full attention to this problem.

How did John know him so well?

He mused over the problem, reviewing every choice John had made about whether to interact with him or not, and how he did so. No pattern jumped out, and he huffed in frustration.

“More data,” he muttered. What about the minutes before? He looked again, reviewing John in the moments before he had intervened, comparing them to other moments in which he’d observed John. It took an embarrassingly long time for it to come to him.

John watched him. More than that, he _observed_. He observed and acted on his observations. Which meant he could read the signs even Sherlock did not always recognise in himself.

“John,” Sherlock breathed.

But what did it _mean_?

The last piece of the puzzle. Sherlock had the data, but he was missing the sentiment, the meaning behind it all.

_I need John._

As the thought shuddered through him, it expanded, filling his body with certainty. He needed John, and not just for this problem; John was essential. Essential to his understanding of the world, to his wellbeing. His happiness.

Shifting on the sofa, Sherlock turned that last idea over. It was newer than the others, and he was surprised how comfortably it sat in his mind. Happiness was not something he had ever considered important, until now.

_Until John._

The slam of the door below brought Sherlock back to Baker Street. He blinked in the dim light, a little surprised at how dark it had become as he’d reviewed the last few months in his mind. Was it late? His internal clock told him it was 8.28pm. Statistically early for John to return from the pub; he averaged another forty seven minutes when drinking with Stamford.

A shiver of anticipation ran through Sherlock as John mounted the last of the stairs, standing in the doorway of 221b. He was backlit from the hall, and it surprised Sherlock how much he wanted to be able to see John’s expression now that it was hidden.

“Hello, John,” Sherlock said quietly.

“Hi,” John replied. He shifted his weight, shucking his jacket and throwing it over the arm of the sofa. The collar brushed Sherlock’s bare toes. They flexed instinctively at the contact.

Sherlock waited, his heart pounding in his chest. He wanted John to…something. To stay. To be closer. He swallowed. The light came on, dim where Sherlock had taken two of the three bulbs for an experiment.

John’s face was calm and relaxed.

“You’re home statistically early,” Sherlock ventured.

John smiled a little, holding Sherlock’s gaze. He stepped forward, trailing fingers across his jacket until they dipped down to Sherlock’s feet. Sherlock felt his breath catch at the fingers just barely swooping over his pyjamas, tracing a line up his outer shin, over his knee, his thigh. His lungs burned, frozen static as John’s fingers passed over the bump of his hip and started up his ribs. Finally they slowed, resting on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“8.30pm, August 19th,” John said, and the words sent a thrill through Sherlock’s hyper-aware body.

_Now. It was happening again._

“Happy un-birth-moment, Sherlock.”

The words were whispered this time, warm and soft.

Sherlock blinked, unsure how to respond. This was not like the other un-birth-moments. The amusement was gone, replaced with a solemnity he didn’t know how to process.

And there was no present.

A soft smile played over John’s face. Sherlock could see the smile widen as the thought must have shown on his face. _John can read me…_

That thought was different, too, and Sherlock allowed it to show, curious as to what John would do.

Without a word, John leaned down, dry lips lingering over Sherlock’s temple.

It burned. The fire spread through his body, lines of flame licking along his hairline and down past his bellybutton.

When his eyes opened, he looked up at John, speechless. The camera clicked quietly.

“Terrible light,” Sherlock said, throat tight.

“That’s okay,” John replied. “I’m not going to need the photo to remember.”


	5. September 5th, 12.06am

The hours had passed too slowly, Sherlock thought crossly to himself. It had been mere weeks since his last un-birthday, and he could still feel John’s lips brushing against his skin. He’d found himself touching the spot absently in the days after August 19th, and only John watching, an affectionate smile on his face, had made Sherlock stop himself doing it.

Now, though, John was at work. Or possibly the pub; Sherlock’s internal clock was faulty now, but it was dark outside, so there was an excellent chance the day had passed without him noticing. He groaned to himself. The days blurred together but minutes crept by, defying their definitive characteristic of being equal measures of time. Slower and slower...

 _It’s because John’s not here._ Time moved normally when John was home, or sprinting through London with him, or dragging him out of the morgue before he was physically assaulted by Anderson. It was only the time when John was at work, or the shops, or anywhere away from Sherlock that time slowed down. It defied logic, Sherlock ranted to himself. Einstein was an idiot, clearly, but in this one observation he might have had a point.

_Time was relative._

It was still dark when John’s familiar steps sounded up the stairs, slower and with a heavier limp than usual. The knot of anxiety in Sherlock’s chest eased at the knowledge. John was home. Sherlock ignored the deductions rising automatically in his mind, instead focussing on the image of the man before him – shoulders drooping, head rolling like he did when his shoulder was hurting. Sherlock was sitting in his chair and John met his eyes, shucking his jacket and hanging it up before turning to his flatmate.

Restlessly, Sherlock allowed his eyes to move slowly over the familiar shapes and colours that were so uniquely John. He couldn’t lose this; whatever happened, he still needed John, in whatever context would make John happy. But the ambiguity of this whole un-birthday exercise was affecting him more than he had thought it would. He still wanted to be the focus of John’s attention, but the desire was different now. Deeper. He wanted more from it, from them. One of them had to do something, say something, and John was being maddeningly passive.

“Today is not my birthday.” The words were out before Sherlock could consider them, hanging expectantly in the air between them. He’d started this, whatever it was, and his heart was beating faster at the path he’d chosen.

“Okay,” John said, eyes searching Sherlock’s face.

“My birthday is important to you,” Sherlock said. It was a statement but a thread of uncertainty underlined the words.

“Yes,” John replied.

“I don’t understand why,” Sherlock told him, choosing his words carefully now. “But I do like my un-birthdays.”

“I do, too,” John said. He wasn’t taking any lead in the conversation. Sherlock could feel the patience radiating from him as he stood, tired and a little drunk, waiting for Sherlock to speak.

 “I don’t know what to do next,” Sherlock admitted.

“What do you want to do?” John countered. The question was calm and quiet, without the innuendo that could make it awkwardly suggestive.

Sherlock considered the question. He shifted his weight as various scenarios crossed his mind, some generating discomfort, others a firm _no_ in his mind. One idea clung, and he examined it – and the potential consequences – carefully. Doing something that would alienate John was unacceptable. There was a risk, of course, but the way John was gently encouraging him, along with the evidence of his own eyes made it increasingly likely that the risk was within himself, not between him and John.

Not so much of a risk, then.

“It’s not my birth moment,” Sherlock said carefully, checking his watch, “at 12.06am, September 5th.” He looked uncertainly at John.

“I’ll add it to the list,” John said, the hint of a smile in his voice and on his face.

Sherlock waited, but John didn’t continue. It was up to him again. He should have found it irritating but with John it was comforting. A safe space to find his place in their changing paradigm.

“We have to do the photo,” Sherlock said. He wanted to add, ‘and the present,’ but his courage failed him.

“We do,” John said. He held Sherlock’s eyes as he fumbled for his phone, the pints of beer making him a little slower. The photo would be too dark and out of focus, Sherlock thought. Before he could form his objection, John turned, stepping into Sherlock’s space, flipping the camera so they both appeared in the frame.

Sherlock could feel John’s balance wavering a little, the slight brushes of his body against the thin cotton of Sherlock’s t-shirt. Body heat seeped through immediately, flushing one side of Sherlock’s chest with John’s warmth. His hair tickled under Sherlock’s chin, catching a little on the stubble flourishing there. It was tempting to wind his arm around John, pull him close, turn his head to bury his nose in John’s hair and breathe in the source of the faintly smoky, faintly woodsy scent. Sherlock’s head moved of its own accord, tilting down before he could rein in the impulse.

The background  _was_ a little blurred, but the darkness triggered the flash; instead of too dark it was washed white with the sudden light. Sherlock’s breathlessness didn’t show in the photo, of course, but there were other tells. His eyes were wide, mouth slightly ajar, and he wasn’t looking at the camera but sideways at John, and the longing there was writ plain for the world to see. Sherlock was so fixated on the betrayal of his own expression he barely looked at John.

“Not just the photo,” John said, stepping back a little. He fiddled with his phone for a moment, and in the silence Sherlock’s phone buzzed. “I sent you a copy,” he said quietly.

Somehow there was more space between their bodies now, and Sherlock had to clench his fists not to reach for John again. The slight smile was still there, but John’s eyes were gentle, not mocking. Long slow breaths to keep himself calm and keep track of time; it was as elastic as Einstein had promised, moments expanding and contracting depending on their content. Perhaps this was the real reason for his restlessly slow days lately...

“Good night, Sherlock,” John said quietly. “Happy un-birth-moment.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock said, and watched as he turned, the sound of John climbing the stairs making him feel oddly lonely.


	6. December 1st, 2.21am

“Sherlock, what are you doing?”

Sherlock froze, his heart thumping against his ribs. Since the beginning of September his mind had been occupied with the problem of what to do about the un-birthdays. From one perspective the answer was obvious, yet as the date approached Sherlock found himself questioning his courage more than anything else. What if John was not receptive to his advance?

The dryly logical part of his brain told him that there was no other possible explanation for the whole charade.

Strangely, it was the emotional centre which was most insistent, reminding him of how dark the world would be should John Watson remove himself from Sherlock’s sphere. Every smile, every demonstration of John’s affection and care reminded Sherlock how alone he had been Before John. How could he risk all that for the possibility of something else? Even if the more was golden and warm in his mind palace, full of gentle hands and soft kisses, a closeness he had never experienced but craved without measure?

The indecision was agonising.

Sherlock wondered if John had noticed him withdrawing, trying not to feel so much, trying not to be _affected_ so much, pushing his emotions away while still he cried out for _more, more more…_

Finally, the night had come – John retiring to bed with a quiet, ‘Good night,’, Sherlock pacing as he so often did, holding his violin, fingers shaking too much to play until his phone had pinged an unnecessary reminder.

December 1st.

2.20am.

He had sixty seconds. Sixty seconds to screw his courage to the sticking place.

Or not.

525 600 minutes, he remembered John saying. Was he going to wait another 525 599 for his next chance?

He was not.

Forty seconds.

Thus Sherlock had bounded up the stairs to John’s room, forgetting how foolish it was to startle John awake.

“Sherlock?” John had asked, immediately awake, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, eyes wide. “Sherlock, what are you doing?”

Terror squeezed at his throat, and Sherlock couldn’t speak. Instead he raised his violin, pressed shaking fingers to the strings and began to play. The notes were tiny, as quiet as he could make them.

A little squeaky, a little sharp.

Fortunately, the tune was unmistakable.

As the first notes of _Happy Birthday to You_ danced through the air, John’s back stiffened, his breath drawing sharply in. The song lasted less than twenty seconds, and as the last note faded, the faint sounds of an alarm beeping from downstairs sounded in the still night air.

“December first, 2.21am,” Sherlock said quietly. A shiver of uncertainly flickered through him, and he added hastily, “Given how few un-birth-moments you have chosen to celebrate this year, the likelihood of you ever stumbling on the correct moment before either of us died was-”

He broke off as John stood up, expression soft and more openly affectionate than Sherlock had seen in a long time.

“John?” Sherlock whispered.

“Happy birthday,” John said quietly. “Thank you for telling me.”

“You’re welcome,” Sherlock replied automatically. He swallowed hard.

“I didn’t know,” John told him. They were standing close, and John’s hand came up to rest on Sherlock’s chest; the heat was enough to sear a mark straight to his heart.

“I didn’t know if I was going to tell you,” Sherlock whispered. “I liked you…thinking about me.”

John huffed a laugh. “I always think about you, Sherlock.”

“You do?”

“Of course I do.”

Sherlock nodded. He knew where he wanted their conversation to go, but he had no idea how to get from here to there. Silently, he begged John to take charge again, as he had at the start.

“Well,” John said, and his voice was warm and full, “I didn’t know, so I don’t have a present for you.”

“Oh.” Sherlock’s heart cracked. This had been a bad idea.

“Hang on,” John said, his other hand catching Sherlock’s hip before he could turn to go. “Why don’t you put your violin down?”

Sherlock blinked, then obeyed, laying the instrument and its bow on John’s dresser, annoyed he had to step far enough away for John’s hands to leave him. Annoyed he was obeying without knowing why. Annoyed he was frightened.

“Perhaps you could tell me what you want,” John suggested.

Sherlock walked back to John, standing exactly where he had been, his heart thumping again.

As naturally as breathing, John’s hands returned to exactly where they had been – against his heart and against his hip. He was sure John would be able to feel it. Surely it was beating a tattoo against John’s palm?

“Sherlock,” John whispered. “Do you know what you want for your birthday?”

“Yes,” Sherlock breathed. “But…”

“Maybe I can guess,” John suggested.

“Please…”

Sherlock swallowed as John stepped carefully forward. He was moving slowly, perhaps to draw it out, perhaps to give Sherlock a chance to protest. It was like falling in honey, sweet and slow, John’s eyes on his mouth, hand sliding up to guide his neck lower, golden eyelashes fluttering closed as John’s lips settled over his.

_Finally._

The honey was John, Sherlock discovered; the sweetness was in John’s very taste, the unhurried press of lips mirrored in the slow spread of honey across a surface.

When John pulled away, studying Sherlock’s face, the whimper was certainly not voluntary. It eased the shadow of doubt behind John’s eyes, replacing it with a deep satisfaction Sherlock had never seen before.

He glanced to his right. “2.24am.”

Sherlock frowned, not understanding the significance until John spoke again.

“Happy Un-birth-moment, Sherlock,” John whispered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is the closing chapter of this little story. Hopefully you have enjoyed the soft, patient moments as John waits for Sherlock to realise what he has seen (observed, dare I say?).  
> Each previous date and time has been a birthday gift to each of my dearest fandom friends; they are my besties and the far flung pieces of my heart (I love you all). This last one is a gift to Sherlock on the anniversary of his first appearance in 'A Study in Scarlet'. The time is self explanatory - how could it be anything else? <3  
> Thank you for all your patience in this - I know it was a long term commitment but now you can enjoy the whole arc. <3


End file.
